Honey Bee
by dandylyings
Summary: "To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all." - Oscar Wilde... Who helps the psychologist with their problems? (Second person narrative. A/U Brittana)
1. Prologue: Before You Met Her

_"To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all."_

_-__**Oscar Wilde**_

* * *

The red wine from the box is open before you even close the door. Like most aspects of your life lately, you want it before it wants you.

You slip out of your closed-toed heels while enjoying your second glass of wine. With your feet nested under both you and the white covers, you allow the alcohol to unravel the rest of your body until you're resting on top of your couch's arm. It is white, like your image, and you just want to spill the wine on top of it. You want color in your quaint house. Most of its decorations are white, excluding the black rug in the living you and the pots and pans in your kitchen. Even your counter-tops are made of some form of white marble. You think of how you wish your home was more of a calming cream than a blinding white while you engulf your third glass.

By the forth glass, there is less fight in you to change your surroundings and more fire going to motivate you to pass out somewhere more respectable- like a bed. You like that effect of alcohol – how it can turn a leader into a fumbler. You've put the box of healing inside of the refrigerator before finding your way into your room. You begin to finish your nightly routine as your white walls offend you,: washing your body and hair, brushing your teeth, putting a few aspirins and a glass of water on your bedside table, lying to yourself.

You sleep without clothes and until your alarm goes off. The first thing you do is drink the aspirins and water. You shower again because you can, then dress, and are out of your house before dawn taps you on your shoulder. You wear your hair in a bun, like usual, your suit shark and professional as you take every punctual step to your car. Everything you do in the public eye you do with purpose. Your pretend your head does not feel the consequences of your late-night cravings, you pretend with perfect posture and a smile on your face. Even when you reach the station, the steps you take on closed-toed heels are confident and the focus you use while looking over cases is stellar.

You are amazing at your job.

Stephanie James reiterates the same after you give her reasonable steps for growth in her confidence and opening up to her remaining family members. You tell her that keeping things inside isn't good for anyone, that it can lead to disastrous behavior, thinking - and worse – addictions. Stephanie James is the type of student who actually listens to you, so she nods and thinks and nods as she leaves your office. And you were thinking about the things to tell her that would be to her benefit as you drove to McKinley High. She has been showing the signs of Generalized Anxiety Disorder, something you've come to find to be familiar lately: shakiness, excessive worrying over things that don't matter, headaches, restlessness. You believe it's stemmed from her brother's death last August. It's traumatic to be the sister of a solider – or so you've heard. But you've got her to talk to her parents about her feelings and given them a list of cognitive and behavioral psychologist who would be happy to help her more closely. You would never send any of the High School students that come to you to a psychiatrist, though. Something about using medication as a crutch for happiness really gets to you – you wouldn't wish that type of dependency on anyone.

When you do finish calling down all the kids that normally need you, you turn your attention to the rest of your day. It is two-thirty on a Tuesday and you find yourself at the Rolling Seas, a local bar that's been open since you were born. You order a glass of red wine, a classy drink for such a grungy place, knowing people are watching as you slide into a booth in the far, dark corner of the bar. You know you won't be recognized by anyone, it being on the outskirts of town, so you take your time drinking your wine while observing the environment around you. It's dirty and colorful, in both its appearance and the language its customers use.

No one who volunteers to go to places like the Rolling Seas actually leaves in a regular time frame. Everyone knows you go to the Rolling Seas like work shifts. - come in at three leave at eleven. And that's what you do. You're slightly drunk by the time you reach your car. It's late and the moon is singing light in all directions.

When you get into your car, you buckle up first.

Because _safety_ is everything to you.

And you drive to your place. Carefully maneuvering between the empty Lima, Ohio, lanes; careful to mind the speed limit and when you reach your house, you're more than ready to lie down in your bed. After your nightly routine of washing your body and hair, brushing your teeth, setting a few aspirins and a glass of water by your bedside, and lying to yourself, you wrap yourself in offensive white sheets and dream of nothing.

You wake before your alarm. Down the aspirin and water, and you start the day like you always do. You hear your closed-toed heels click as you walk into McKinley. You pass all the frustrated teachers with bold steps and leave the same way. You drink the rest of the box before showering, brushing your teeth, and setting up the necessary aspirins. You tell yourself that you are fine before closing your eyes.

You wake before your alarm. Down the aspirin and water, and you start the day like you've taught yourself how. You walk with convinced, but unsure, steps beyond surrendering educators and surrendering students but find your way to past mistakes. You stop by the store on the way to your house, you pick up a box of red wine, and you find yourself in your bed with four glasses of its contents in you.

You sleep. You wake. You drink.

You sleep. You wake. You drink.

YousleepYouwakeYoudrink.

And you continue to dream of white.


	2. Chapter One: Yearning

_"Never waste your time trying to explain who you are to people who are committed to misunderstanding you."_

**_- Dream Hampton_**

* * *

Your week has reminded you of a Salvador Dali clock – how time constantly has melted together. You think, for slight moments, that you are at your house. That you are a walk away from your kitchen, that a glass of holy healing is available in moments. But you are not home.

Instead, Stephanie is in your office crying and you tell yourself to be careful, to remember you're good at your job. Stephanie tells you she is lonely, that her brother was the closest family member. How she misses his letters the most out of everything – she says sometimes, when she re-reads them, she can still hear his voice - hear his laugh. She said his laugh was a type of beautiful. You feel empathy there, to the point of tears: the idea that something so objective, but familiar (like a letter – or a lost love)_ could _be waiting at home by your door makes you internally cringe… You know the feeling of missing something (someone).

The yearning. The feeling of want.

You ask her what makes her happy, she replies, easily, that she likes to sing. It's then you knew what you could do to help her.

When locking up your office at the start of the second-to-last school period, you head the opposite direction of the parking garage. You take down the hallway to a section you've not really been to since you were hired – about four years ago. You walk past the hallway that holds most of the social studies classes and into the one that holds foreign languages. You find William Schuester in the first classroom to the right.

He's surprised when you ask him if you could have a word with him. It could be because of how much you've hated him – you might've called him a lot of mean names that orbited around his grimy smile and matching hair behind his back. You might've, in private, insulted his teaching style and sexual-frustrated demeanor. You might've even anonymously egged his car one Halloween when you were a bit_ too_ under the influence - around the time you were starting to lose control. But you like to think that those days are in the past.

His students barely look up when he finds himself excusing the class to their own respective obligations.

He greets you with a stern _Ms. Lopez_, before asking you why you interrupted his class. You are quick to the point:

"William," you begin, "one of_ your_ students I'm treating will be joining your Glee club." You say without question before throwing in a "today."

He asks you why the rush - you say because she likes to sing - he asks you if you've heard her sing - you say no - he asks if she'll be able to go to all of the meetings – you think about her attendance record before saying that you're not entirely sure.

He gives you a look that says skeptical, and you're losing your patients.

"Look, William," you tell him with an exasperated sigh that is laced with condescension, "can I remind you that as one of the only faculty members with a degree in psychology – _doctorate_ degree, at that - I am more than capable of making good, life decisions for myself and others."

He scoffs beneath his frown, angry that you dangle your self-served importance in front of his face at any chance you get.

"So, how about I give you a little bit of advice," you take a step closer to him as you lower your voice, "do what I say and we won't have a problem."

He scoffs again, probably choking on his mediocracy , and you run out of patience.

"Regardless of what you think and feel, _William, _Stephanie James will be a valuable part of New Directions."

He looks at you like you picked up dirty jelly from the floor and licked it off your fingers – you give him a look that says _I don't give a fuck_. Ultimately, your face wins when he sighs and says, "she can start today," before sunkenly going back into his classroom, where he will ultimately scar children for life until they will need someone of your merit.

After giving him all of Stephanie James' details, you walk back to your office and unlock it. You call Stephanie James to back down to your office the last five minutes of school and tell her the good news. You're pleased that her face is less blotchy with tears and more excitement in her cheeks when you're done talking.

"Thanks, Miss," she tells you while getting up from one of the two seats in front of your desk. "I'll be able to make the practice today, too," she says before lingering by your door. You take the bait and ask her if there is anything else she would need. She asks if you could come, too. Because she needs someone she knows there. Because she'd hate to have to go through the transition alone. And because you're too good at your job, you say _okay_.

Instead of spending your alone time at the Rolling Seas on a Thursday evening, you find yourself listening to some students sing the Rolling Stones. They aren't half bad, either. William still might not be your favorite, but you do give him kudos on helping such amazing, talented kids cultivate their passions. You're pleased to find that Stephanie James blended right in, so your presence was no longer needed.

When you get to your house, you're surprised to find your fridge empty of your cravings. You're also surprised to find the wine box in the trash. You forgot you drank the rest of it the night before.

It's the first time in the last year or so that you followed your nightly routine with sober steps. You wash your body and hair, brush your teeth, but find your bedside clear when you're finally in bed. You toss and turn and toss and turn and toss and turn and yearn under the covers. You find yourself thinking things you don't always think about: Why you haven't died from alcohol poison yet is the most persistent thought. You think about how your sheets are white and how you wish you had wine to spill on them. And you toss and turn and toss and turn and yearn for _something_. You end up getting to your feet and fixing a glass of water. After you reach the bottom of the glass you realize that you could have a well of water and still not quench your thirst.

You're in your car, parked outside of the local _24-hour_ store before you realize you just got up from your house to get a drink. You don't want to get out of the car, but your body propels you to the entrance, past the cash register. Your hands grab two boxes of cheap, red wine before you heftily making your way to the register. The line is consisted of you, a blonde woman who's a good distance taller than you, and a guy with a beer belly.

The woman looks at you like she knows you and all you can do is stare at the chocolate bar in her left hand. For some reason, you really don't want to make eye contact with her. It isn't until she waves her hand holding the chocolate bar in front of your face that you realize you were staring a bit too long. You look up to find her in a questioning stance.

Shit.

She must have asked you something.

You try to cough into your hand before realizing they're full, and you're forced to ask her to repeat herself.

She tells you that what she said wasn't really important, just that she had a midnight craving. She says that while motioning to the chocolate in her hand.

You make sure to not tell her the same.

You just nod your head and hope the beer belly guy moves a little fucking faster.

After the blonde woman pays for her candy, you pay for your reason for living (lately). The cashier looks at you like he knows your intentions, you look at him like you don't give a fuck. He is a pimple faced boy who probably went to McKinley and is probably going to Lima Community College. You don't feel like taking shit his type. The type that has never had the taste of the real world, who thinks _hard _is working at a _24-hour_ convenience store in Lima, Ohio. Who thinks that they can judge you because you need something to help you sleep better. Someone who has probably never even fallen in love. You're a bit more than drunk off your angry thoughts when you hand him cash for your transaction. You try to tell yourself not to waste any more time thinking about what he must think of you. And after taking your receipt with a bit of hate, you carry one of your many loads to your car, and after placing them in the backseat as if they were children, you make your way back home.

The red wine from the box is open before you even close the door. A glass is full before you can remove the slides you hastily threw on. You drink three glasses before making your way to bed.

You don't toss and you don't turn and you don't yearn because you have a well again.

You sleep satisfied.

And you dream of white and wake before your alarm.


	3. Chapter Two: Liar Liar Liar

**A/N**: I have edited this story over the last two weeks. I encourage re-reading the story from the beginning if you've been following this story from the start. This whole chapter has been re-written.

Trigger warning: self harm.

* * *

_"I sit before flowers hoping they will train me in the art of opening up._"

— **_Shane Koyczan, excerpt from "The Student"_**

You want to tell her to hurry up. It's Friday and you could be doing so much more with your time than listening to her.

You want to tell her that you have one child waiting for you outside the station; another that's been released from the hospital due to an "accidental" overdose on heroine – a drug that her father was incarcerated for. You want to tell her that there are people who need you more than she. You want to tell her that you did not go through so many years of education to help with trivial matters like what she is expressing - you went through it all to help people. People like Stephanie James and Elizabeth Jackson and Troy Paris. You want to scream at her, you want to kick her out of your office and put her back into the classes she's failing. Yet instead you take a deep, subtle breath, straighten your posture and continue to listen.

Because you are great at your job.

"Look, Olivia," you start after the second-to-last school bell rings, not missing how she gives you an unappreciative look, "are you sure that these problems that you're expressing are things that I am able to help you with?" Your voice is high with frustration and professionalism.

She rebuttals with a simple yes then says, "God, no one listens to me." You tell her that you are, even go as far as making a demonstration of moving your clasped hands to the top of your desk, before she changes the subject to why she believes being a part of the Big Brother, Big Sister program is the worst thing she's ever had to endure.

"Olivia," you begin again -

"Miss Lopez," Olivia whines, "I told you I liked to be called _Sugar_." You ignore her as you move your hands back from your desk to your lap.

"How about this, since I have to leave for important matters, you can tell me all about this when I call you down next Monday." You gracefully stand to your feet as Olivia does the same.

"No." She says whining. "You can't leave yet." Her body language screams both defeated and full of authority.

You continue shuffling her to the door anyway.

"Don't worry, Sugar," you say, "I will definitely be in contact with you soon."

You've opened the door as big and wide as your lie before Olivia looks at you with surprisingly watery eyes. "I should've just cut deeper," she mumbles before sniffling. You then look down at her left wrist and notice the many wristbands and bracelets.

And you feel stupid.

You feel that you have to do better.

Because self-harm is _never_ okay - because this child, who put their faith in you, could have walked out of your office with the mindset of suicide.

And as your phone goes off, the door to your office being closed and safe, you want to tell Olivia to take her time. That you could talk all day. That your office is a safe place that is sworn to confidentiality. And you do just that.

Because you are great at your job.

You tell the calling hospital that Jason can handle the child waiting outside the station; another that Stacy is just as qualified to handle an overdosed want to tell her that there are people who can wait because her mental health is important. You want to tell her that you went through so many years of education to help with the matters she is expressing - that she wishes she was not invisible and that sometimes she feels her life is disposable.. You want to hug her, you want to keep her in your office and put light back in her smile. Most of all, you want to tell her that you are sorry for underestimating her worth. Yet instead you take a subtle deep breath, straighten your posture and continue to listen.

Because you need to prove to yourself that you are good at your job.

Sugar is robotic from that moment on. She no longer answers you like she was, now she watches you like you were a snake - full of caution, full of mystery, full of awe.

You try a different approach, "Does your Father know you dislike the program?" She stiffens at the mention of her Father.  
"What program?" she answers.  
You tell her the Big Brother, Big Sister program.

She stays stuff.

"So your Father doesn't know," you question in her silence.

"It's not like he'd care," she mumbles under her breath, "he sent me there to get away from me." Her hands are now crossed over her chest, her pink nails toughly packed in fist under her arms to the point of invisibility.

"Why do you say that, Oli-" you catch yourself, "Sugar?"

"Because." She answers, her head turning toward the door - her eyes now watching the clock.

You think you really understand what is going on. Yet you don't. But since you're going to have to report this conversation to both her parental guardians and the county because of her confession to self-hard , you decide to ask everything, "Sugar," you start, "has your Father ever touched you in ways you didn't want to be touched?"

She shakes her head no.

"Is he or has he ever been physically violent towards you?"

She shakes her head no.

"And your mother?" you ask.

"Dead."

"Any other parental figures in your li-"

"No."

You both sit in silence before you break out the speech you hate giving.

"Sugar, I am very proud of you for confided in me about your self-harm and feelings. It takes someone very brave to do such." You take a not-so-subtle deep breath, "however, because of that exact reason, I'm going to have to tell your primary guardian about some of the details you've shared with me."

Sugar is out of her seat before you blink. "No." She says, breathing heavy, "you can't to that." She backs away toward your door, "I trusted you," she is crying again, "I trusted you and you're breaking my trust."

You feel so bad that you're the first to break eye contact, "Sugar," you say in an attempt to calm her.

"You told me this was safe place!" she screams. "You lied! You're a liar!" She has to be heard through out the office. The whole office must think you are a liar. And after Sugar's slammed your office door, you've made the calls you didn't want to, and you're at your house with a cup of red wine in your hand - you start to feel you are a liar, too.

You wake from sleep with your alarm. You take the pills. You wash. You dress and are at your office at the station by seven. You spend your morning filing papers.

You are good at your job, you think after the second drink that evening. You think you deserve a cookie with how much work you put in. How you handled all of the kids while repressing all of your feelings. That takes hard work, you think. It takes work to forget your problems. You decide to live it up tonight. To drink more than you normally do. And you feel better. Though you are stumbling around your house, slipping and tripping on both your lack-of-sobriety and past-regrets, you do not remember the look Sugar gave you, nor how loud she screamed. And you are satisfied with forgetting. You are satisfied with lying.

The headache you wake with on Saturday morning is one of vengeance. You down the water and pills by your table side before throwing them up when you try to stabilize yourself.

You regret almost everything you've ever done in your life in that single moment. Your hangover is so bad you even start to regret things that you didn't even do.

You honestly want to die for the second time in your life.

And there is no one to call a parental figure or break legally confidentially.

So you wish your death as you wash. You wish your death as your dress. You wish your death as you drive to the local super-store.

And it's only eight in the morning.

And you drive with your seatbelt fastened tightly around your waist; and for the first time your head hurts so bad that you cannot see; and the world is so loud, it reminds you of Sugar; and the world is so bright it is alarming; and your head hurts and you can't think right and your car swerves and the world is honking around you and the cars jerks and flips and you can only see the blinding white.


End file.
